


the shape i'm in

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Handwaving Magic and Science, M/M, More like De-Serum Steve, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say it’s temporary and Bucky swallows. Steve’s holding his chin like he’s got somethin’ to prove. There are some things Bucky’s still fuzzy on. Blank spaces and bridges that haven’t quite repaired themselves yet. But seeing this, Steve in an examination room, sitting on his scrawny butt with his jaw set and his eyes hard, it’s a painfully familiar sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shape i'm in

**Author's Note:**

> This is very self-indulgent. I’m not even sorry for the hand-wavey science and the tenuous suspension of belief, so ya’ll are just gonna have to deal with it.

Bucky decides he hates magic. Science he can deal with. Science made sense. Well, it made sense to smart people with degrees in the art of Sense-Making. But what mattered was that it made sense to _someone_ and then that someone would write the dumb people’s version down in a textbook so that it’d make some sorta sense to the less cranially blessed portion of the population. Bucky could appreciate that. In another life, he would have maybe dabbled in the sciences. Engineering maybe. Maybe he woulda gotten a job makin’ flying cars with Stark. Howard, that is. Not his pain-in-the-ass son. 

As it were, Howard’s pain-in-the-ass son also happens to be good at science, which is nice, really. Good for him. But it’s no help to Bucky right now. Right now, what Bucky needs is a magician because no amount of poking and prodding and hmming and hawing is going to break that stupid terrorist warlock’s spell on Steve.

Turns out, vibranium can only deflect so much.

 

•••

 

They say it’s temporary. They say they’re calling in a Doctor Strange to fix it. Bucky’s a little dubious about trusting a guy none of them have ever met but it only takes one more body rattling coughing fit from Steve to change his mind. Thing is, Doctor Strange is a doctor and doctors have appointments and the appointments in Strange’s line of business can get very complicated and yes it’s Captain America but certain other matters demand his attention and there are enough Avengers to hold down the fort while the good Captain is out of commission. Dr. Strange can be here in a month and from there it’ll probably be a simple matter to reverse the spell.

Probably. 

Bucky swallows. Steve’s holding his chin like he’s got somethin’ to prove. There are some things Bucky’s still fuzzy on. Blank spaces and bridges that haven’t quite repaired themselves yet. But seeing this, Steve in an examination room, sitting on his scrawny butt with his jaw set and his eyes hard, it’s a painfully familiar sight.

 

•••

 

Of course, the moment Steve starts feeling useless is the same moment he starts becoming restless.

He’s on a medical leave of absence at the remnants of SHIELD and they vehemently turn down his consulting services, as though he’d lost his entire brain function along with the serum. Bucky’s there for that meeting, and Steve looks so ready to clock everyone in the room on the mouth that Bucky has to fake an early appointment with Banner to get them out of there. 

Steve thrusts his chin in the air and stalks out of the room. There’s a storm building in those eyes and those artist fingers of his curl inwards into tight fists. Bucky knows that look, that body language, and he’s gotta defuse it before Steve starts a fight with someone bigger’n the two of them combined.

“Hey, hey, Stevie…” Bucky says, catching up to Steve in the hall. He tries to sound gentle. It’s something he’s working on. The Winter Soldier’s sharp impulses still color his every move, his every vocal inflection, and sometimes there are days when every word out of his mouth sounds like a goddamn robot. So, he hopes he’s managed to spread something gentle over the Soldier’s programmed deadpan because the last thing he wants to do is set Steve off worrying about him instead of his own sense of self-preservation.

Bucky takes Steve’s hand in his flesh one, rubbing Steve’s knuckles methodically with his own thumb, coaxing those fingers out of their clenched position. There are crescent moon indents in Steve’s palm. Bucky presses his mouth against them. 

Steve looks up at him. There’s half a second of hesitation, the Soldier in Bucky notes, in which Steve pauses briefly to recalibrate the angle of his chin and the height of his sight line. The stubborn storm starts to clear away. In its stead, his face settles into something dark and resigned. 

“Guess there’s no point in stickin’ around SHIELD,” Steve says, and he’s smiling but there’s the barest hint of bitterness there, it’s enough to stop Bucky in his tracks and pull away.

“Steve,” Bucky starts, because he hates, absolutely hates the idea that Steve might be launching himself into a self-pity party.

Steve gives a little shake of his head, and then stands on his tiptoes. He pulls Bucky down into an embrace that should probably feel awkward as they shuffle and negotiate the breadth and height (and lack thereof) of their bodies, except that it’s not at all. Steve wraps his thin arms around Bucky’s neck and buries his face into his chest. Their bodies lock and click with fluid ease, fit into each other like puzzle pieces and Bucky knows in his heart, as he wraps his own arms around this tiny Steve, that this is something familiar too.

 

•••

 

Natasha takes Steve shopping and now he has a lot of plaid. Pepper says it’d be best to keep this quiet until it gets sorted out because if the world knew that Captain America was in less than tip top physical condition, they’d be dealing with an enormous PR fallout while simultaneously painting a worldwide assassination target onto Steve Rogers’ back. A lot of dirty journalists would kill to break this story. A lot of international spy organizations would much rather kill. 

Thus, the plaid. And the hair. And the jeans. (Oh, the jeans.)

To be fair, Steve actually did need the glasses. They pick out thick black frames that make his baby blues pop and unlike the last time he wore a pair like these, the lenses are coated in astigmatic prescription.

And see, Natasha reasons, Steve and Bucky already live in Brooklyn. Easy for Steve to fly under the radar as your average, run of the mill, twenty-something, hipster art student with a live-in boyfriend. Half of it’s already true anyway. There’s even a goddamn record player in their living room.

“Record players aren’t hipster,” Bucky says, exasperated.

“Yes they are,” Natasha says. She sets down the last of the shopping haul, gives Steve a tiny peck on his cheek, and cartwheels out the window.

And that’s the end of that.

 

•••

 

Bucky admits, it’s nice seeing Steve with a drawing pad in his lap again. He’s got his knees up, curled into himself on the couch, a position that’s harder to get into when you’re just too big all over. Steve’s slender fingers and delicate wrists glide over the paper with rhythmic ease. He bites down on his full bottom lip and narrows his blue eyes in concentration. There’s a charcoal smudge on his cheek. The sunset from out the fire escape comes to life under his deft hands.

Bucky longs to kiss him, bite down on that plump pair of lips, and cradle Steve’s little neck in his hands. This, he knows, is familiar too. Like some thought he might have felt once upon a time in a smaller, dingier apartment in Brooklyn, back when neither of them said a word about the aching pulse in their chests and that unspoken pull that drew them together.

But things are different now and Bucky knows that in 2014 he’s allowed to kiss Steve as much as he wants. And so, Bucky waits patiently until the sunset’s down and Steve’s putting away his charcoal and flipping his sketchbook back to the cover before he carefully leans over, takes off those ridiculous glasses, and catches Steve on that perfect full mouth of his. Steve hitches his breath before grabbing Bucky’s shirt collar and pulling him in. Bucky’s metal fingers run up into his blonde hair. He’s gonna muss up that meticulously styled hairdo Natasha taught Steve to do, but neither of them care. Steve smiles under Bucky’s red lips.

His fingers—the metal ones—move down to cup Steve’s charcoal-stained cheek, and then down caressing his slender neck and— 

Before Bucky knows it, there’s a pained sound coming from Steve. There’s a tangle of thin limbs pushing him off in sheer fight-or-flight instinct, and then Steve is pulling away, rubbing at his neck. It’s already beginning to bruise, the imprints of metal leaving deep marks on pale skin.

Bucky’s never treated Steve like he was too delicate to move because lord knows, even before the serum, Steven Grant Rogers was anything _but_ delicate. But.

Bucky’s scrambling, reaching over with his flesh hand, and tripping over his words, “Steve, Stevie—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I forgot—” and Bucky hates himself for forgetting, because how stupid d’you have to be to forget that your left arm is fifty plus pounds of pure metal force with little to no sensitivity? He doesn’t even think he pressed that hard but.

The threshold of pain for a supersoldier’s a completely different story. 

Steve just gives him that wry, half-smile, and coughs out, “S’all right, Buck.”

But Bucky can tell. There’re are little tears of pain brimming in the corner of Steve’s eyes along with something like embarrassment, as if it’s Steve’s fault that he’s like this, as if it’s Steve’s fault he can’t handle the same things he used to. Bucky’s mortified. His flesh hand settles on the bruise.

He rests his forehead on Steve’s, skin on skin. He stocked up on first-aid the second after they got off the phone with that Doctor Strange. Bucky figured Steve’d need it.

Bucky didn’t figure that he’d be the first reason why.

He hears Steve sigh, a rattling breath. “It’s fine, Buck,” he says again.

“It’s not,” Bucky murmurs.

 

•••

 

Kissing Steve’s different when Steve’s not a wall of muscle. Lying in bed with Steve’s different too when it’s Bucky, the wiring ripped from his left arm, enveloping Steve and not the other way around.

That, though, is another familiar thing. Winters in old Brooklyn were brutal.

They’re warm and settled and Steve’s a little upset at Bucky for messing with the arm but Steve’s had a long day and as long as Bucky promises to see Stark tomorrow about a repair, Steve’s not gonna push it. 

Bucky presses a soft kiss into Steve’s neck, careful not to put too much pressure on the bruises. He’s wrapped around Steve’s, Steve's back against his front, and he swears he can feel Steve’s erratic heartbeat through it all. He steals a quick glance at the bedside table. Next to Steve’s glasses sits the inhaler, and Bucky can rest a little easier knowing that they don’t have to deal with asthma cigarettes anymore. 

And Bucky thinks, as he laces his human fingers through Steve’s, that maybe it is going to be fine. They’ve done this for years. They can do it for a little bit more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
